by Jay Ruud
“They were not random, Master, not random at all,” Merlin answered. “This was a very deliberate attack. Someone wants us silenced. That is one reason we wish to stay here tonight. First, I expect there is some safety here in the abbey. But even if that safety is breached, I want to make sure we remain together. I want nothing to happen to any of us that I do not know about.”
The monk shivered with a kind of aversion. “To think that it has come to this. Someone among us here in Saint-Malo has killed, and has no shame in continuing to kill to keep his crime hidden. Sometimes I understand why Saint Benedict bade us stay within the cloister. The world outside is no place for human beings.”
“Master,” Merlin asked. “Will you be retiring to your cell, or do you intend to watch with us tonight?”
“Think I will stay here,” Oswald said. “Least until I believe he is out of danger, though that may indeed take all night. We can put out the candles if their brightness hinders your sleep.”
“No, no,” Merlin answered. “Everything is quite fine. If he does seem to be out of immediate danger by morning, young Gildas and I will still want to interview the lady Brangwen, who you told us was staying here.”
“Yes,” Oswald murmured. “I remember. She is in a room in the cathedral itself, as I think I told you earlier. The abbot, by the way, has given permission for you to interview her. So I can have one of our brothers show you the way in the morning, once we’ve determined Sir Dinadan’s progress.”
“Good,” Merlin agreed. “Then Gildas, I see no reason for you to watch at the moment. I am not really sleepy, and you young whelps need your beauty rest. So I will sit up a while, but I suggest you stretch out and get some sleep. It has been a long day.”
It had indeed been long, and I was very grateful to stretch out on one of the empty cots in the room, keenly aware of the sound of Dinadan’s breathing as I did so. He had come so close to dying on the spot—in fact, all three of us had—that only now did I realize how shaken I was. There was evil here in Saint-Malo. An obsessive evil that was linked with revenge and unrequited love, like the characters in Captain Jacques’s story. Where was it coming from? The palace itself? Cornwall? Even Ireland? I couldn’t help but remember the hatred felt for Tristram among La Belle Isolde’s own family, after he had killed her brother in a duel. Perhaps the faithful Brangwen would be able to tell us something about that. I thought again about my beloved Lady Rosemounde. She would be happy to learn that despite what rumors claimed, her sister’s vengeful remarks did not cause Sir Tristram’s death. But how could she thank me if we discovered, after all, that her sister or her brother was, in fact, behind the cold-blooded murder of Arthur’s great knight?
Drifting off to sleep, I thought again about Merlin’s prophesy regarding this case. A dog. A dog what? Turns on its master. It seemed too clear—was Captain Jacques’ dog going to turn on him somehow? What did that have to do with the murder? And what was the other part? There is another wolf with horns. That made no sense at all. Something symbolic, I suppose. A wolf in sheep’s clothing? A fierce, wolf-like murderer? With horns? As I finally dropped into sleep, a coat of arms passed before my eyes, and on it was a creature. A creature with horns.
Chapter Nine
The Faithful Brangwen
In watching his patient, Master Oswald had been spared singing matins and lauds, but one of the younger monks had come up and called him to prime, and with that I awoke to find Merlin still sitting up—I never knew whether he had dozed off during the night or not—and Dinadan himself sleeping peacefully and breathing normally. He had made it through the night and, I was now convinced in my heart, he was likely to survive this attack.
Master Oswald rose and stretched, and then confirmed my optimism. “Your friend seems to be out of immediate danger,” he told us. “Must go to sing prime now. Perhaps you would still like to watch with him for awhile. When I come back, I’ll change his dressing, and we’ll see how that wound looks. Odds are it will be looking better. When the service has ended, I will have young Brother Aaron here show you the way to the lady Brangwen’s cell in the cathedral,” and with that he nodded at the youthful tonsured lad who had come to fetch him, a boy younger than me. “She may even be at the service. She often attends prime and vespers,” Oswald added. “If she is there this morning, I’ll warn her that you’re coming.”
“Thank you, Master, that would be good of you,” Merlin said as the two monks left the sickroom. Then he plopped down on the other bed and told me, “It’s good you’re finally awake. You ought to know better than to practice your filthy sin of sloth here in a house of God. You watch Dinadan for a while, boy, I need some rest.” And with that he curled up in a ball and seemed to go to sleep instantly.
And so I sat for some time, listening to the two of them breathe and thinking vaguely about my lady Rosemounde and the queen, when Sir Dinadan gave a brief cough and suddenly opened up his eyes. He looked confused, and tried to get up, but I laid a hand across him and gently pressured him to stay prone. “Gildas!” he exclaimed, though in a weak voice that made him look confused, as if he did not recognize it as his own. “Where am I? What’s happening?”
“You’re in the monastery of Saint Vincent,” I told him. “We brought you here last night after you were shot by a crossbow dart, remember? You’re in the care of Master Oswald.”
“Oh great,” Dinadan replied. “Well, I sure hope he’ll have better luck with me than he did with Tristram. Isn’t there another doctor in this town?”
“He seems to know what he’s doing. At least it doesn’t look like the arrow that pierced your chest was poisoned.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Gildas my lad. I’m not going anywhere else in this town without my sword. Where’s that captain fellow? Send him round to fetch it from our luggage, and you won’t soon see another one of these wounds in me, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Right,” I agreed. “But you’re not going anywhere for a while. You’ve got a serious injury that needs to heal.”
“You’re telling me!” Dinadan responded. “I’m the one who can feel it. And trust me, it really, really hurts.”
“Well, maybe when Master Oswald gets back, he can give you some juice of the poppy. That might salve the pain.”
“Ach, the pain I can stand. I don’t want to be stupid from the drug.” By now Sir Dinadan was panting.
“Don’t exert yourself, my lord. Your wound is too fresh, and still too dangerous.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Dinadan replied, settling back into the bed. “Truth is, I really feel like sleeping some more right now. Maybe a good deal more.”
“That’s fine,” I said absently, leaning forward on my stool with my face cradled in my hands in order to rest until Master Oswald returned, or until Merlin woke up. But Dinadan’s voice broke in on my reverie, well after I thought he had gone to sleep. In soft, dreamy sounding tones, I heard him murmur, “You waste your time suspecting Kaherdin. Kaherdin would not have harmed Sir Tristram. He loved Tristram. Truly. Loved him.”
***
I started when Oswald came back in through the door. I must have dozed off again. Merlin started as well—he had been pretty soundly asleep until that moment. Dinadan merely grunted and rolled over to his side, and I felt obliged to mention to Oswald that Sir Dinadan had awakened, seemed lucid and healthy, but still tired. The monk was happy to hear that, and said, “I’ll stay here with him through the day to see whether he needs anything else and to monitor how well he responds to the medicines. I do want to change his dressings as well. But I haven’t forgotten your goal, my lord Merlin. This is Brother Aaron. He will guide you to see the lady Brangwen, as you wish. In fact I did see her attending the service for prime this morning, and informed her you would be visiting her, so she is actually expecting you. Don’t worry about your friend; he seems to be making good progress and I will watch him closely.”
Merlin rose, and I was already standing. Brother Aaron was waiting at the door of the infirmary. We thanked Master Oswald and turned to follow the young monk out the door, Merlin tossing back the promise, “We’ll be right back after we’ve finished with the lady Brangwen,” and Brother Aaron led us out of the infirmary and down to the ground floor to the cloisters once more.
I was fairly certain that there had to be a direct way into the cathedral from the abbey; it seemed absurd for all of the monks to have to exit onto the street and then come around the corner to enter the church from the west door. And yet that was the way the young monk was taking us. But I realized after a moment that the part of the cathedral that the lady Brangwen must be staying in had to be separated from the monastery itself, so that the monks could not have direct access to her—or she to the monks—because of their strict rule of chastity.
And so we entered the west door of the cathedral of Saint Vincent. Brother Aaron, his brown curls bobbing over his tonsure, was chattering as we walked. “The lady is staying temporarily in a room here in the cathedral,” he informed us, concerned with giving us a firm grasp of the obvious. “She waits only until she can find passage back to Cornwall. Or Logres—she can get back to Cornwall overland from there, if that is her quickest option.” The youth’s large, brown, innocent eyes looked up at Merlin and blinked. “She was quite devastated, you know, when her queen died. She would not be consoled.”
“So…she wept uncontrollably? Wailed perhaps without ceasing? What did she do?”
“Oh, nothing,” Brother Aaron answered, without a trace of irony. “I mean, she was like a stone. She would not speak, or respond, or react in any way. Like a marble statue. A beautiful marble statue.”
“Brother Aaron,” I asked, recalling my own infatuation with Guinevere when I served as her page, “are you the monk assigned to serve the lady Brangwen while she stays here?”
“Oh yes,” he said proudly and somewhat protectively. “That is my duty. And a very welcome duty. The lady is quite kind and truly in need of someone like me to help her. I mean, she is in a somewhat vulnerable position here, surely you can see that.”
“Indeed,” Merlin said. “We wish only to help the lady, and to console her in her grief.” By now we had climbed to the second floor of the church, where in a corner on the clerestory level, behind one of the small pillars that separated this area from the nave, a small closet was built. This had to be the space belonging temporarily to the stranded lady Brangwen.
Brother Aaron knocked on the door and, upon hearing a soft “Yes?” from inside the room, he opened the door and, bowing with palpable deference, announced, “My lady, the ambassadors from Camelot are here to see you…”
I smiled at the promotion he had given us. “Ah, thank you, Brother Aaron. Please show them in,” came a soft, sensuous voice from within. The young monk stepped back out and, swinging the door open wide, motioned us into the closet. I noticed he waited outside, for the room was quite small, and three of us visiting with the lady within may have been uncomfortably crowded.
Everyone always raved about the unparalleled beauty of La Belle Isolde, princess of Ireland and queen of Cornwall, wife of King Mark and lover of Sir Tristram. A woman whose beauty was legendary. Nowhere had I ever heard anyone praise her chief lady-in-waiting, the faithful Brangwen. But I could see, as I entered that small room, that this was a mistake.
She wore an olive green gown, fastened in front by a row of ivory buttons, with a frill around the collar that folded onto her upper chest in two points. Over the gown was a tight jacket that reached to slightly below her waist. The jacket was light brown, embroidered with colorful flowers, and trimmed with a dark brown fur. She wore her red hair plaited as it hung down over her left shoulder, and her head was uncovered since she was, though certainly at least thirty years of age, as yet unmarried.
But it was her large green eyes that captivated one on first sight. She sat on the only small chair in the room, her hands holding a nosegay and placed primly in her lap. Her wide, honest-looking face lay open and sincere as those substantial emerald eyes stared out at me from her fair, freckled skin like those of a loving puppy. I found myself smiling shyly as Merlin cleared his throat and addressed the lady.
“My lady Brangwen,” Merlin began, bowing his head slightly. “My name is Merlin, chief advisor to his majesty, King Arthur of Logres. My companion is my assistant, Master Gildas. We understand that you have no transportation back to the kingdom of Cornwall, where you wish to return now that your queen has died. We can offer you passage on the boat that takes us back to Southampton, a sturdy ship that brought us here and is at our disposal thanks to the generosity of Duke Hoel. While this is not a direct path to Cornwall, it will get you to Logres, and allow you to find transport by land back to Mark’s kingdom, if that is where you wish to return. Or I believe I can offer you King Arthur’s protection, if you choose not to return to Cornwall, and would like to resettle in Arthur’s kingdom. I think I can even promise that, should it be your wish, King Arthur would see to it that you could be returned to your original home in Ireland itself. Tell us your wishes, my lady, for we are at your service.”
I had not expected this from Merlin. Knowing that the faithful Brangwen was perhaps our only reliable witness to La Belle Isolde’s journey on the ship that brought her here, and the events that led directly up to her death, it surprised me that Merlin was taking this circuitous route to get to that subject. Perhaps, like me, he was somewhat smitten by the unanticipated beauty of the lady herself.
“Your courtesy is most welcome, Lord Merlin,” the lady Brangwen answered, her sweet intoxicating voice wrapping itself around each syllable of her response. “I have no wish to return to Ireland, I’m afraid. My lady Isolde worked quite hard to make herself unwelcome with her own family and all the other nobles of that island. My association with her would most certainly make me persona non grata as well. As for the offer to stay in Camelot, I thank you and your gracious king for that kindly proposed hospitality, but I would be alone in that court—I have no friends or kinsmen there, and although I am certain the members of Arthur’s magnificent court would be welcoming and courteous, like yourselves, I would not be at home there. I have lived in Cornwall for some years now. That is where I feel most at home, and that is where I want to return to live out my days.”
“Forgive my asking, my lady,” Merlin began. “But I had heard at one time that you were residing at the Convent of Saint Mary Magdalene in Caerleon, in Arthur’s realm. Were you not placed there by Sir Tristram?”
Lady Brangwen’s eyes widened with surprise. “I was not aware, Lord Merlin, that my whereabouts were the common gossip of the court. I had not thought that anyone in Camelot would have even heard of me.”
“I was close enough to Sir Tristram that he occasionally confided in me. I assure you that this was not common knowledge. But I was given to understand that after King Mark discovered the ruse that you and La Belle Isolde had concocted, by which you would take her place at night and sleep with the king—begging your pardon, my lady—that there was some worry about your safety, and that Tristram brought you to the convent to keep you safe.”
At that the lady Brangwen’s smile grew strained and cold as her eyes narrowed at Merlin. I wondered myself what he was trying to do with such a bald statement about her sexual life.
“I see my estimate of your courtesy may have been somewhat hasty,” she began. “Sir Tristram seems to have felt completely at ease discussing even the most personal details of my private life with his comrades in the inns and drinking establishments of Caerleon. What are you seeking from me, old man? You seem to know everything. What is there left for me to tell you?”
Merlin once more assumed his deferential pose, and spoke quietly, his eyes lowered. “My lady, I mean no disrespect. As I stated earlier, we will be happy to help you and to give you passage back to Logres, and we mean you no
harm. But I admit to needing your help and cooperation, indeed, I implore you for it. The truth is, we are here chiefly to investigate the unsettling deaths of Sir Tristram and Queen Isolde. King Arthur has sent us to look into the matter, and I have, as well, a letter from the lord Kaherdin giving us license to question the folk of this town.”
Brangwen scoffed. “Put your parchment away, I care nothing for Kaherdin and his self-aggrandizing poses. He’s a nobody who thinks he should be somebody, and that’s always a dangerous combination. But I do respect the king. Ask your questions, old man.”
Merlin inclined his head toward her in a polite acknowledgment of her permission. “Much has been said about the events surrounding Tristram and Isolde’s deaths, and of the story of their affair that led up to that point. If your own story is known, as you say, it is known because of the circumstances surrounding it, and your involvement with the chief players in the story: your own queen, the prince Tristram, and King Mark. If you can help us by either verifying or correcting those stories as they have circulated, it will be of significant help to our investigation. And so, my lady, as I understand it, you were a guest at the convent of Saint Mary Magdalene. But I understand you returned to Cornwall?”
Brangwen let out a sigh, as if to say “all right, let’s get on with it, if you’re going to insist.” She even went so far as to roll her eyes, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Merlin, whose mouth curled up in the corner for just a moment in amusement. “All right, yes, of course I returned to Cornwall. How else could I have come here with the queen? After Tristram left for Brittany, I had a letter from my mistress, begging me to return and saying that now, with Tristram out of the country, King Mark was far less angry, and not at all inclined to revenge as he had been at the time Tristram spirited me from the court. Well, I was grateful to the sisters for providing me that protection, but I had no desire to stay in the convent—taking the veil was the farthest thing from my mind—and so I hired a wandering minstrel who was traveling in that direction to escort me to Cornwall, and received a fine welcome, from both my lady and King Mark, when I appeared again in court. The minstrel did not fare as well—he sang a song at supper about a pair of lovers cuckolding a lord and was thrown from the palace for his pains. But I was home, and happy to be there.”